“One word?” she answered, closing her lips tightly, “not a single word; not even a gesture.”
“At least, be angry with me,” he entreated, trying to take the hand she withheld from him,—“that is, if you dare to be angry with the leader of the rebels, who is now as sad and distrustful as he was lately happy and confiding.”
Marie gave him a look that was far from angry, and he added: “You have my secret, but I have not yours.”
The alabaster brow appeared to darken at these words; she cast a look of annoyance on the young chieftain, and answered, hastily: “Tell you my secret? Never!”
In love every word, every glance has the eloquence of the moment; but on this occasion Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s exclamation revealed nothing, and, clever as Montauran might be, its secret was impenetrable to him, though the tones of her voice betrayed some extraordinary and unusual emotion which piqued his curiosity.
“You have a singular way of dispelling suspicion,” he said.
“Do you still suspect me?” she replied, looking him in the eye, as if to say, “What rights have you over me?”
“Mademoiselle,” said the young man, in a voice that was submissive and yet firm, “the authority you exercise over Republican troops, this escort—”
“Ah, that reminds me! My escort and I,” she asked, in a slightly satirical tone, “your protectors, in short,—will they be safe here?”
“Yes, on the word of a gentleman. Whoever you be, you and your party have nothing to fear in my house.”